“I hope she remembers me,” I say.
“She very well might,” Miss Becker says as she hands me a visitor’s pass. “Long-term memory is the last to go.”
Something to look forward to. By the time I get to the seventh floor, I’ve forgotten Mrs. Harrison’s room number.
CHAPTER 74
WITH A VISITOR’S PASS clipped to my jacket, I feel free to wander around the seventh floor. Various people in pajamas and robes go past me, some with walkers, most wearing hearing aids that swirl around their ears like tiny seahorses. They all smile and say hello.
I pass an art room where several residents are seated at tables with coloring books. Next to that is the exercise room with an aerobics class in progress, residents engaged in some not-too-deep knee bends. In the weightlifting corner, a man is raising two Sprite cans over his head.
At the end of the hall, there’s a party going on. A big hand-lettered sign readsHAPPY BIRTHDAY, NOVEMBER BABIES.An attendant holds up a small chocolate cake with lit birthday candles, and all the November “babies” crowd around her, pushing and shoving so they can get close enough to blow them out.
It turns out I’m in the activity wing of La Serena. As I round a corner, I get to the resident section. Several people are lying in their beds watchingFamily Feud. Others are sound asleep with the TV blasting. A few doors are closed with adorableDO NOT DISTURBsigns hanging from the doorknobs, all decorated with cartoon sheep.
But one room is different. Instead of the usual standard-issue bed and dresser, I see a full-size bed with a pink satin spread. Next to the bed is a pine dresser with a vintage stained-glass lamp on top. In the corner, a silver-haired woman is sitting in a bentwood rocker reading this month’s issue ofThe Atlantic.
My first thought:This is the wrong room. Or the wrong Mrs. Harrison.It’s a fairly common name.
“Mrs. Harrison?” I ask.
“Yes?” she says, looking up.
It’s her, all right. She looks just like Ben in drag. The same downturned mouth and blue eyes as her son. But there’s one major difference. She looks happy, glad to see me, whoever I am. And unlike Ben, she’s slim and quite elegant, the kind of woman you’d see in an arthritis-medicine commercial, casually snipping roses in her flower shop as she tells us how much better her life is thanks to Celebrex.
“My name is Megan Greer,” I say, using the same go-to alias I used with Ben’s ex-wife on the remote chance that the two of them keep in touch. “I’m a friend of your son’s.”
“A friend of Benny’s?” she asks.
“Yes. I was in your neighborhood, and I wanted to meet you.” She looks doubtful. “Ben has told me so much about you,” I add. Now shereallylooks doubtful.
“That’s somewhat surprising. But please, do have a seat.”
I clear away a bunch of woolen goods draped across a rocker and sit down. “So you’re a knitter,” I say.
She nods. “I used to make scarves for all the residents. They were quite popular. But then I was asked to stop.”
“Why is that?”
She leans forward and whispers, “Many of the people here are, well,diminished,shall we say. Or—what’s that word they use nowadays?Challenged. Deeply challenged, poor things.”
“Yes. I see that.”
“And many of them are not terribly happy with their lives here. If you get my drift.”
I nod. I get it. It’s like handing a prisoner a knotted bedsheet.
“So now instead of scarves, I make smaller items. Socks, mittens—you can get such marvelous yarns these days on Etsy. I also do afghans if someone needs one.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“I find it quite relaxing. I knit while I’m listening to podcasts, or when I’m on the treadmill.”
“And what do you do when you’re not knitting?”
“I read. Once or twice a week, I volunteer in the Alzheimer’s wing here.”
Knitting. Podcasts. Etsy. Volunteering. Why did Ben tell Amber this woman had lost her marbles? She’s got more aggies and immies than I do.
